


The World Is Not Enough

by Lydia_Eve



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Maya - Fandom
Genre: Inspired by Fanfiction, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-16 22:21:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16503839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lydia_Eve/pseuds/Lydia_Eve
Summary: After the Harry's sexual frustration nearly destroyed (and actually saved) their lives, Harry is happy living and working with Draco Malfoy. Unfortunately, Malfoy is reassigned overseas for a few months, and Harry's friends worry that once again, they will have to cope with Harry's out-of-control hormones. Harry struggles between acute embarrassment as well as wondering just where he and Malfoy will stand if he ever comes back.This work is a sequel to "Drop Dead Gorgeous" by Maya (hands down the best H/D story I've ever read) and can be found here: https://www.reddit.com/r/HPSlashFic/comments/85hgq1/complete_works_of_maya/





	The World Is Not Enough

They thought Harry shouldn’t go to the wedding.

Nothing had been as bad as the year when his Veela powers nearly brought the Ministry to its knees – and it wasn’t exactly bad now – but they didn’t trust him.

“I’m not some kind of … _sex maniac_ ,” Harry protested, biting out the words. The restaurant was busy enough so that his words didn’t carry, but he was still a little horrified that he’d had to say them at all.

Goyle poured Harry a little more tea and looked across the table at Hermione for help.

“Of course not, Harry,” she said gently, putting down her chopsticks, “no one thinks that–”

“Some of us think that,” Pansy put in.

Hermione ignored this. “It’s just that you and Draco haven’t been separated for this long since…”

“Since the Veela nightmare year,” finished Pansy.

Hermione sighed. “Since the Veela nightmare year,” she agreed.

Harry glared at his dim sum.

“This,” he said after a moment. “This isn’t like that. No one’s been…” He clenched his teeth. “Jumping me or anything. Do you really think I’d even go if I thought–”

“Harry, mate, we want you to go to the wedding,” said Ron, loyal to the end. “Don’t you think Ginny would be crushed if you weren’t there?”

“I’d like to go,” Harry said to his pork dumplings.

And that was just it. He wanted to go, maybe take his mind off things. He and Ginny had been a lot better lately; they’d grown closer since (the Veela nightmare year) since everything. She’d asked him to come. Harry’d even made sure Dawlish had taken his on-call weekend. Even Dean chatted with him now and then when Malfoy was around to take some of the edge off. They were all fine. Ginny and Dean were getting married. Harry wanted to go. Harry _should_ go. Only–

“It’s been over four months since you saw him, Harry,” Hermione reminded him gently.

Rahim Croyle, Crabbe and Goyle’s three-year-old chose that moment to take an interest in the conversation. “Who are you talking about?” he asked, pausing from brushing Crabbe’s hair with chopsticks.

“Why don’t you have some nai wong bao?” Goyle suggested, placing a bun on his son’s plate.

“Who are they talking about, Daddy?” Rahim asked, turning to Crabbe.

Crabbe shot Harry an apologetic look, which annoyed Harry. It wasn’t like Malfoy was _dead_.

“They’re talking about Uncle Draco,” said Crabbe.

Rahim’s eyes lit up. “Uncle Draco!” The little boy whipped around to Harry. The two of them weren’t on bad terms, but they generally accepted that they had little in common and didn’t talk much. But Rahim seemed to have forgotten their understanding because he jumped off Crabbe and ran to Harry’s side to clutch his faded wool jumper. “Is he coming?”

Harry would die for Rahim, but he still froze with alarm. Children just seemed like creatures he wasn’t supposed to interact with. Die for, sure. Blow bubbles with, or colour with, or play toy Quidditch with, or _anything with_? Not so much.

Malfoy’d had an explanation for it once.

Harry had just failed to do anything with the piece of mud and leaf cake that Bill and Fleur’s daughter had just offered him at Ron and Pansy’s wedding. Where the child had found mud in the shining sea of pristine white tents and crystal accents in Ron and Pansy’s backyard was anyone’s guess, but Harry took it. When saying thank you wasn’t enough for the girl’s expectant eyes, Harry handed it back to her. The girl looked crushed.

Malfoy had whipped the mud out of the girl’s hands, and put it near his face. “Num, num, num,” he said happily. “Some of your best work yet, Victoire! Let’s see if you can make it just as good gluten-free.”

Fleur, always loyally French, wasn’t close enough to have caught the actual words Malfoy had said, but she seemed to catch his meaning, and her head snapped their way from across the main pavilion. Malfoy waved at her, and when the girl – Victoire – giggled and ran off at the challenge, she gave a small smile in return.

Malfoy smirked and turned back to Harry, dusting off some of the mud cake that had fallen on his black dress robes.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Harry told him honestly.

“It’s because you only paid attention to the part in Auror’s training where they taught us how to fight,” Malfoy had said to him. “I’m sure the mandatory classes on human interaction were beneath you. Twerp,” he added affectionately.

Harry leaned back in his chair, relaxed now that there were no tiny humans about. “I didn’t need classes to know how to fight,” he said.

Malfoy caught the challenge. “Where did you have in mind?” he asked, voice low.

Harry knew Ron and Pansy’s property eventually hit a woods and shallow creek if you walked far enough. They could take the hedged path so no one would see them go. Ron and Pansy were drunkenly dancing their hearts out on the dance floor even though speeches were only just finished and the sun had barely set. Harry could see what would happen now: they’d spar, heal each other, maybe kiss in the gathering dusk until Harry couldn’t breathe for how impossibly relieved he was that Malfoy was here and in his arms. They’d miss dancing and dessert, but Harry wouldn’t miss a thing.

It happened exactly like that.

But now there was no Malfoy here to save Harry from Rahim, or possibly vice versa. Malfoy had been reassigned for a few months – it was supposed to be three, but Malfoy’s last letter said it could be up to six now – and now Harry was supposed to say it out loud.

“Not for a while,” Harry told Rahim, whose face fell like the time Ron sat on his toy broom.

A wave of fellow feeling went through Harry, only Rahim would forget in a while, he’d go home tonight with his favourite people in the world, and even the Firebolt 2.0 prototype Ron procured for a delighted Rahim and his horrified parents wouldn’t make Harry feel any better.

*

After they won Aurors of the Year for a sixth time, Shaklebolt sent Malfoy away.

They hadn’t won every year since that first time. Once or twice they had been beaten legitimately. There was that year they got zero points each on a case, which hadn’t happened since _before_. Harry had panicked when Malfoy had been captured and stunned the man standing behind Malfoy when Harry had finally found them. Unfortunately the man had Polyjuiced them both, and Harry had learned that the hard way when he raced towards who he thought was Malfoy and took his face in his hands.

“Malfoy, thank God, I was–”

“Ew, what the _hell_?” Malfoy had squeaked.

“Er,” said Harry, and then not-Malfoy stunned him.

He and Malfoy both woke up in the Auror’s makeshift camp in Scotland near where the kidnappers were suspected to be. Harry woke on a cold cot with Malfoy groggily coming to on the second cot in the burlap tent. Turns out the man had planned to let Harry take him back to their headquarters “Which is why we work as a team, Mr Potter,” Shacklebolt had reminded him.

“My partner was in there,” Harry had snarled.

Malfoy quickly crossed the small distance in the tent and put his hands in Harry’s hair as though to pet it in a soothing way. Instead his hand got stuck in the tangles and he looked down at Harry in betrayal as though Malfoy didn’t know perfectly well what Harry’s hair was like.

“Sir, what Potter no doubt means is that, while crazy, his heart of gold was in the right place,” Malfoy said. “And anyway, who’s to say I wasn’t kidnapped as part of my plan? It could have been part of my plan. I would have pretended to fall in love with my assailants, and then, on our Linen anniversary, I would have revealed myself and our dastardly plan to take them down. They would have been foiled by _love_. And what's worse than that?”

“If Thomas and Louison hadn’t found you in time, you’d probably be dead,” Shaklebolt told Harry as though neither of them had spoken. “Consider yourself suspended until the end of the week.”

Harry sent his cot crashing into the back of the tent, which had clearly been reinforced by magic. The cot crumpled like the cheap tin it was with a satisfying sound. Shacklebolt had just left, and the medic who’d just been coming through the flap to check on them beat a hasty retreat.

“You were in danger,” Harry told Malfoy, who would understand.

Malfoy looked impassive, and a little resigned. “Well, I’m not anymore,” he said, and then added, “What would you give the mission?”

“What?” barked Harry, distracted by Malfoy’s incomprehensible ramblings as Malfoy probably intended.

“Clearly I’m at zero points for getting captured and Polyjuiced,” Malfoy said thoughtfully. “What about you?”

Harry was breathing hard, and he was still on edge. Still not right. He clenched his teeth and closed his eyes tight.

“Hey,” said Malfoy, suddenly gentle and in his ear. “I’m right here. I’m all right. We’re both all right.”

Harry nodded, eyes still closed, but Malfoy had his arms around him now, his check pressed against Harry’s. The Scottish chill was starting to fade as Malfoy pushed their bodies together. Harry’s arms came up around Malfoy, and he leaned into him.

“You’re all right,” Harry said into Malfoy’s neck.

Apparently there was enough of Harry’s hair to comb through after all, because Malfoy’s fingers were moving at the base of Harry’s neck. “It’s okay now,” Malfoy said.

Slowly Harry’s tension unfurled, and he allowed himself to go loose in Malfoy’s arms. They stood that way for quite a while. The medic hadn’t returned.

Harry pulled back, not a lot, just far enough to look at Malfoy, to marvel in the fact that he was still here, in his arms, in front of him, looking only at Harry.

Malfoy had a small curl to his mouth as though he might say something sarcastic, but his eyes were gentle, and Harry knew he wouldn’t just then. He was waiting for Harry to be all right too.

Harry sighed. “I think I might get a point for distracting the kidnapper with gay feelings,” he said.

Malfoy’s eyes lit up. “True,” he said slowly.

“But I lose a point for stunning you,” Harry conceded. “And I think you lose a point for having a plan that ended up with you in a _linen_ relationship with the kidnappers, whatever the hell that means.”

“Why Potter,” Malfoy said, mouth quirking, “and here I was thinking you still didn’t understand the points system at all.”

“I’m a trained professional,” Harry pointed out.

“A suspended trained professional,” said Malfoy, dropping a look at Harry’s mouth that was entirely incongruous with his words. Harry felt his breath catch in his throat.

The medic popped into the tent, his voice cheerful. “Glad to see you’re up, chaps! Er,” he added when he saw how Harry and Malfoy were looking at each other. “Er, maybe I’ll come back.”

Never taking his eyes off Harry, Malfoy smiled. “You know, I think I can be persuaded to finish up my getting kidnapped paperwork at home,” he said, and pressed a light kiss on Harry’s lower lip.

Harry’s breathing went desperately shallow. “Yeah?” he asked, biting off a moan as Malfoy’s lips made their way across Harry’s jaw to his neck.

“Unless you want to bypass the work rule,” Malfoy suggested in a whisper.

Harry did, but he didn’t want to have sex in a cold tent with half the office no doubt listening just outside. With a flare of shining professionalism, Harry took a half step away from Malfoy’s embrace – being careful not to step on the debris of his tantrum – kept their hands linked, and Apparated them straight into their living room.

Malfoy took a glance around the living room. Harry had insisted Malfoy decorate since he couldn’t care less about what his living space looked like so long as Malfoy was in it. Malfoy had the exact taste Harry assumed a rich pure-brat would, but Malfoy’d still asked Harry things like “The indigo accent pillows or plum?” or “Would you rather have sex on this sectional couch or a chaise lounge by the window?” so Harry felt like it was his too. They had elegant dark wood furniture, but the coffee and dining tables had a visible grain and a live edge, so it gave it just a hint of a rustic feel. It was fancy and cozy all at once.

They’d brought Cyril, of course, and since then Helena the Xbox and Gaston the laptop had been added to their collection. Above the fireplace hung wizarding photographs – Crabbe and Goyle and Rahim on the day he became theirs; Ron and Pansy grinning at each other on their wedding day; Harry, Ron and Hermione from a day at the Burrow as kids; Narcissa and Lucius laughing at a party when they were young; Lily and James spinning around a courtyard; one completely still one of Shacklebolt from a newspaper clipping that was technically a wizarding photo, but that never moved at all and Malfoy found hilarious.

There were photos of Harry and Malfoy as well: Harry scowling and blushing as Malfoy exuberantly kissed his cheek; Harry throwing back his head laughing and Malfoy looking pleased with himself; one picture that Blaise Zabini himself had actually snapped through a window once – he had an eye for beauty, he’d explained in the unexpected letter with accompanying photo neither of them had known he’d been taking – it was at a Muggle coffee shop. Malfoy had been adding sugar to his coffee as Harry leaned against the milk and sugar stand next to him. Harry remembered the day. It had been early in their relationship. They’d been chatting but not really looking at each other until Malfoy finished and looked up from his coffee. He’d smiled at Harry, and Harry had been caught offguard by the expression on Malfoy’s face – startled and content and _happy_ – and Harry had been so thrown by the sincerity in Malfoy’s smile that he couldn’t help as his lips parted, partly in surprise, but mostly in awe. He smiled helplessly back. They stood there a moment. They didn’t kiss, but it had stuck in Harry’s mind, and, bless him, Zabini had somehow been there to capture the moment. Harry never got tired of looking at it even after seven years. 

The dining table sat all their friends, and the bedroom didn’t have a single flower. Harry loved their place almost as much as he loved Malfoy.

They had sex on the sectional by the window on the first day of Harry’s suspension, and they’d won Auror’s of the Year the year after that, so what did it matter?

Only then they’d faced Shacklbolt’s decree as though it were an execution sentence.

“I’m reassigning both of you to different partners,” he opened with as they entered his office.

Their voices came out as one: “No.”

Shacklebolt seemed to expect this. “I might remind you that you work for this department and not the other way around,” he said, shuffling some papers.

“Bite me,” Harry said, or tried to. Malfoy’s hand covered his mouth very quickly, and it came out unintelligible.

“Well, that might be news to Potter,” Malfoy said, shooting Harry a stern look, “but I do happen to remember that.”

“Thank you, Mr Malfoy,” said Shacklebolt, the poor bastard, “now if we can–”

“But actually,” said Malfoy, examining his nails, “I also seem to remember that my work here is done of my own free will, which I can revoke at any time.”

Shacklebolt’s hand stilled on the documents in front of him. Harry smiled.

“You … would resign?” Shacklebolt asked. It was as close to uncertain as Harry had ever seen him.

“We’re independently wealthy,” Harry pointed out, unable to keep his grin under control.

It wasn’t that Harry didn’t still love the job, but he didn’t _need_ the job like he did before. Before he and Malfoy had entwined their lives so fully, the weekends had dragged on for so long, but for the last few years, Harry and Malfoy had actually spent their days off away from the office. They’d even done two weeks in Japan a few years back, seeing the sights and exploring Tokyo’s wizarding district without a case looming over them. Harry could see them working with a different Auror force in the future, maybe Ireland’s, which had been trying to recruit them both for a while, but if they quit today, Harry didn’t think they’d have trouble filling a few months with each other.

Shacklebolt’s face didn’t move, but he seemed stunned, nevertheless.

“Sir,” said Malfoy. “I think I speak for both of us when I say we don’t want to leave.”

Shacklebolt cleared his throat. “Unfortunately you’re my best Aurors,” he said, composing himself. “And I’m under pressure to separate you. It’s above my head. With your arrest records and awards, the Minister wants you to train others. Not new recruits like the disaster with your last trainee,” he added, “but seasoned Aurors who can still use professional development.”

“Sir–”

“And then,” Shacklebolt said sternly, “there’s the matter of your personal lives.”

Harry stiffened. “I’ve already told you that you don’t get a say in my private life,” he growled as politely as he could.

Shacklebolt blinked, unimpressed. “It’s technically forbidden within the department.”

“I’ll show you forbidden,” Harry started. Malfoy grabbed his arm in a death grip.

“Let me handle this,” he murmured. “I’ll fix this, I promise. Go take a walk, you rabid marsupial.”

Somehow, the insult made Harry feel a bit calmer. He met Malfoy’s eyes one more time before he pushed out of the office. When Malfoy found him an hour later, Harry was running the track in the new training wing (now with fireproof mats).

He didn’t see Malfoy at first, lounging against the wall near the doorway, just watching him.

“How long have you been waiting for me?” Harry asked, slowing to a light jog as he approached.

Malfoy didn’t answer him. Malfoy didn’t quite meet his eyes either.

“What is it?” Harry asked, wary.

“Harry,” Malfoy began.

A cold wave of dread filled Harry’s mind. Malfoy almost never called him that. Aside from a handful of times in bed, the last time he’d heard his given name from Malfoy was when his Aunt Petunia died last year, and Malfoy thought Harry was feeling something that required delicacy.

Well, Harry wasn’t delicate, and he certainly wasn’t about to hear whatever hideous news Malfoy clearly had being treated like a delicate flower.

“ _Don’t_ ,” Harry bit off.

Malfoy turned quickly and met his eyes then, Malfoys own eyes narrowing to slits. Harry stared right back.

“I said I’d do training for a few months in Stockholm,” Malfoy returned tonelessly. “You’ll be given a temporary partner here to continue with our open cases. But obviously,” said Malfoy, some nastiness working its way into his voice the way it always did when he thought he was being rejected, “I can obviously only accept Shacklebolt’s offer for myself. You of course can go up to his office, refuse his deal, and request to work with anyone but me.”

“ _Really?_ ” Harry snapped. “It’s come to that again?”

He knew Malfoy always lashed out disproportionately when he was angry or hurt, but Harry hadn’t thought he’d have that thrown in his face after all this time.

“You tell me,” Malfoy said.

“You’re being ridiculous,” said Harry. “Why are you being ridiculous?”

Never one to outright admit when he was at fault, Malfoy looked down for a moment, then back up at Harry. “Am I?” he asked, softer this time.

Still angry, Harry exhaled in a rush and turned back to the track again – it was good to keep walking for a bit after a run anyway.

“ _Draco_ ,” he said after a moment. “Can we just not?”

“Why, would you rather we go for a run and avoid any unmanly conversation about feelings?” Malfoy asked, but his heart wasn’t in it either.

“Wouldn’t mind,” Harry muttered, turning back to Malfoy with a trace of a smile. Malfoy’s lip curled in reply, though it seemed more wry than happy.

“Well, I don’t have time,” Malfoy said. “My portkey leaves in an hour.” At Harry’s shocked expression he added, “Come home and help me pack?”

They Apparated to their flat. Harry sat on the bed in a state of numb shock which Malfoy hurried around the room, throwing things into a trunk and explaining the situation in a little more detail. Harry didn’t catch it all, but he heard enough – three or four months, special clearance, secure location, limited contact, no visits. And he was leaving in ten minutes.

Harry didn’t even know what to say.

Harry’d thought Malfoy had finished packing a while ago, but he was still puttering around, moving things here and there, checking a short list Shacklebolt had given him. The timed portkey – a ceramic salt shaker – sat on the dresser near the bedroom door.

“And you mustn’t forget to water the plants, Potter,” Malfoy was saying. “I know they’re spelled to get water themselves, but I find they need a little extra care, don’t you? Especially Sierra, she’s not meant for this horrible English climate.”

Harry wasn’t even aware they had a house plant, though he kept this information to himself.

“It’s terrible they couldn’t give me a little more notice,” Malfoy continued, smelling a cotton shirt and making a face, “but you’ll give Flint my apologies this weekend at Quidditch, won’t you? He’ll have kittens if we cancel again, but maybe you can talk Ron or Ginny into going. Maybe in disguise, you know how Flint feels about anyone who ever played with Oliver Wood. I was also thinking that you should lend him our extra–”

“Malfoy,” Harry said, low.

Malfoy didn’t even pretend to be surprised by the interruption. He only slowed, shoulders sagging as though relieved Harry had stopped him.

“It’s not too late to resign, you know,” Malfoy said back, equally softly as though the conversation wouldn’t be happening if they spoke quietly enough. “I just thought – well, we like our jobs. It would be better this way. And it’s not for that long, just–”

“Malfoy,” Harry said again. “Come here.”

Malfoy crossed the room slowly and knelt in front of Harry by the bed. “It’s better this way,” Malfoy whispered up into his face. “Isn’t it?”

There was a time that Harry never thought he’d ever have this, never have Malfoy staring into his eyes, their hands clasped tight. He never thought he’d be sitting on _their_ bed. Never thought he’d see his own horror at their separation reflected identically on Malfoy’s face. Despite the assignment, Harry was still so desperately glad to have what he did.

“Kiss me,” Harry whispered.

Malfoy leaned in, tilting his head up to meet Harry. There wasn’t time for hesitation, but that’s exactly what they did. Their lips brushed over each others’ like they weren’t sure how to proceed. It was slow and chaste and agonizing. Harry slipped off the bed until he was on his knees with Malfoy, both clutching each other and forgetting how to kiss at all.

“Potter,” Malfoy whispered. They had their foreheads pressed together, breathing heavily even though not much had happened. Harry closed his eyes because he already knew this moment was going to haunt him, and he didn’t need more fodder for his dreams. Instead he felt Malfoy’s fingertips against his face, across his lips. Someone might have even said something more, but the portkey buzzed, giving the one-minute warning. When Malfoy sighed and stood up, Harry felt safe enough to open his eyes.

Malfoy slammed the trunk closed and locked it with a spell. He held the trunk handle with one hand and picked up the salt shaker with the other.

Harry stared up at him, wretched.

“Take care of yourself, Potter,” Malfoy said with a small smile. It sounded like goodbye.

“Yeah,” Harry said, barely believing this was happening.

“Remember, I’ve still got everything in one demented–”

_Pop_

And Malfoy was gone.

Harry stayed on the floor a while. It was nice here. The floor never left him for Sweden. And it’s not like he’d be able to return to their bed without Malfoy. Harry took one look around; it was clear that he would have to move.


End file.
